We Continue
by bohowriter
Summary: A continuation of the musical "Rent," from Mark's perspective. Canonical pairings. Originally published under separate account wryter81, but edited and reposted.
1. Prologue

1

I wrote this nearly 8 years ago, as a continuation of the musical version of "Rent." Canonical pairings. Hope you enjoy - all credit to Jonathan Larson.

**We Continue...**

**Prologue**

Christmas Eve, 10 p.m. Eastern Standard time, of course. Three years ago. That night had ended on such a positive note—Mimi's near-death experience bringing us (me-Mark, Roger, Maureen, Joanne, and Collins) all home again. Mimi still swears that Angel was even there, and I believe her. Angel was the one to bring us all together in the first place, and keep us together through all the rough times. So she would be the one to bring us home.

I'd love to say that things were story-book perfect after that, but this is reality

_Actual reality! Act Up! Fight AIDS!_

and not every ending is perfect. In fact, not every ending is even an ending to begin with.

Let me back up...


	2. 1

**Chapter 1**

After Mimi came around, we took her to the hospital (the 911 dispatcher never answered—they must have it in for the East Village bohos). Normally, NONE of us could afford to pay for a check-up, let alone a week in a hospital bed, but thanks to Collins' technical skills, our private rewired ATM gave us enough flow. Mimi recovered (as much as you CAN recover from that kind of thing) and she went home.

Upon her release, Mimi moved into the loft with Roger and me. Roger had found new meaning in life, love, music and all that bullshit, so his artistic visions were constant. He started up his band again ("The Well-Hungarians"...oy vey) and began playing in bars. When Mimi felt better, she joined the band as a dancer (no more Cat-Scratch club, and no more jealous Roger). After a while, Roger began to get phone calls offering bigger gigs, mainly as an opening band. Two years ago, Roger would have NEVER thought of doing something like that ("pathetic sell-outs," he'd gruff), but it was both money and publicity, so he couldn't pass it up.

After Mimi moved into the loft, Maureen and Joanne took her old apartment. Joanne had gotten into a bit of trouble with her law firm. See, we promised to only use the rewired ATM for real emergencies (namely medical, but also for basic necessities sometimes). Before Roger's band started getting regular gigs, Mimi used the ATM to take out money to buy them both AZT. That day, the bank was closely monitoring the ATM's transactions, and she was caught. Joanne was there in an instant, and bailed her out (fortunately the bank had no knowledge of any of our previous "withdraws"). The whole matter was settled quietly with, ironically, some money we had taken out earlier. Anyway, the law firm didn't take too highly to Joanne's pro-bono action, and she was fired. She went to work at the local legal aid, so she was still receiving a paycheck, but it was only half as much.

Maureen was still doing her protest shows for whatever action she was for or against each week. That meant she barely broke even after each show, so she and Joanne were forced to move. With a cheaper rent, they managed to live on Joanne's earnings and any money Maureen was able to pick up after each protest. It wasn't what they once had, but still, they were surviving.

Benny was still with Alison, living in Westport. We didn't talk much, but the events of the previous year had changed him for the better. He still owned the building we lived in, but dropped the rent and turned on the heat from the end of November to February. The vacant lot remained intact, and while Benny wasn't exactly reaching out to the inhabitants with each visit to the East Village, he wasn't driving them away either. And for Benny, that was saying something.

Collins went back to teach at NYU. He had taken a leave of absence a month before Angel died—when we all knew she was near the end—and returned the following January. Needless to say, the administration accepted his theory on "actual reality," and he began to enjoy his career as a teacher again.

After I moved to midtown, Collins was the only one I really stayed in touch with. We'd meet for coffee at the Life Cafe, or dinner near Times Square. Once we even took in a play (off-Broadway, of course). He was really the only one who understood my need to leave the East Village.

Oh...I guess I left that part out. I received a call around mid-January from Alexi Darling, of all people. She understood why I didn't want to work for Buzzline, but offered to send in some of my films to other production companies. I was taken aback by her generosity, but she brushed it off.

"That's what we have to do-o in this bus-iness, Marky," she said, in that sing-song voice of hers. "We help each other ou-ut. Promise you'll do the sa-ame when you ma-ke it."

I promised her. A week or so later, a call came in from a local TV station.

"We need technical work, really," the guy said. He sounded young, about my age, and down-to-earth. "But I can give you a thirty-minute slot at midnight once a week, if you want it."

I took it. Two years ago, I might have blown it off, but it was money and time. I needed both.

So I moved out, right before Roger started touring the northeast. My friends threw me a party (which even Benny came to) and wished me luck, but the only one who really meant it was Collins.

"I understand, Mark," he said as we hugged goodbye. "Don't worry about the others—go find yourself."

Maureen and Joanne each gave me a hug, but I could see the question in their eyes: The studio was only twenty minutes away by train—why didn't I commute? Mimi gave me a brief kiss, but there was a new distance between us, almost as if she resented my leaving. And Roger, who had barely spoken to me since I accepted the job, gave me a half-hearted handshake when I went to hug him. Out of the two of us, I generally was the more apt to touching, but he never blew me off like that before. But I simply shook his hand and promised to stay in touch. That promise was made for all of them.

Funny how promised fall through, even between best friends.

Sure, it started out all well and good. If Roger and Mimi resented my leaving, they covered it up in their phone calls and letters. When they went on the road, I received postcards—at first from their every stop, but then gradually decreasing to none at all. The last one Roger sent me was from Santa Fe, where they opened for a rising band. I knew he only sent it because of the town's meaning to us.

It was about the same with Maureen and Joanne. We'd phone and write at first, and then the communication ebbed. I'd received invitations to Maureen's big protests, but I was living on a fixed budget and couldn't afford the fare.

And Benny...well...I only heard from him once. In fact, that's where all this really begins.


	3. 2

**Chapter 2**

It was December, two years after Angel brought our "family" back together. I had been hard at work that week, making my films and doing my actual job as technician. I enjoyed this life—sure, it wasn't what I pictured myself doing, but the pay was decent and the publicity was something. Plus, I loved the people that I worked with. The TV station wasn't a major one, not at all, so these people were just like me. We all had dreams bigger than this, and would spend hours talking about them together. I liked these people, though occasionally it felt like something was still missing.

On that night, I had come home to my apartment a little after midnight. My film was running, and while I knew no one but my family and possibly the old crew was watching it, it still gave me a sense of satisfaction and accomplishment.

Right when I walked in, the phone began to ring. I raced over to it, aware this was such a dramatic change from my old "screening" days. I couldn't afford to do that anymore—each call could mean a bigger opportunity.

"Hello?" I breathed into the receiver.

"Mark?" A sharp, curt voice flowed into my ear. It sounded familiar...why couldn't I place it?

"Yeah?" I responded.

"It's Benny." Benny, damn. How could I have forgotten his voice? I used to strain my ears to listen for it as I snuck into the loft, trying not to run into him. Explaining to Benny why Roger and I didn't have our share of the rent each month got monotonous.

"Uh...hey Benny," I replied. "It's...it's been a while, man."

"Look Mark," Benny's voice had a different edge this time. "You need to come down here."

"Where's 'here?'" I asked.

"Saint Mary's." Benny paused. "It's Collins."

I flew.


	4. 3

**Chapter 3**

Upon my arrival I saw everyone standing outside Collins' room, looking somber. Maureen ran over and hugged me fiercely. I was surprised at first, and then remembered that it had been a year and a half since I last saw her in person.

When she released me, I gave my greetings to Joanne and Mimi, and wandered over to Roger. He was standing off to the side, talking to Benny.

"How's he doing?" I asked.

"Not too good." Roger's voice was short, boarding on angry. "He...um...he caught the flu about a week ago, but didn't tell anyone."

"He didn't tell anyone?" I asked in disbelief. "How can you miss that?"

Roger turned and gave me a cold stare. "I wasn't exactly here. I just flew in from L.A. this morning."

"This morning?" I was confused.

Benny stepped in. "Collins checked himself into the hospital yesterday, without telling anyone. When he was given the diagnosis, he called me, then Roger, the Maureen."

I was about to ask why I wasn't called till an half an hour ago, but something stopped me. "The diagnosis? What do you mean?"

Benny faltered. Roger looked away, angry as ever. Maureen clutched Joanne's hand tightly. It was Mimi who spoke.

"Mark...they don't expect Collins to recover."


	5. 4

**Chapter 4**

We were allowed to see him one at a time, and then we were to go home. That's what the doctor told us, anyway, but I had a feeling he'd be running us off all night. When it was my turn, I took a deep breath and walked in.

The first thing I noticed was the brightness of the room. Everything in white—the walls, the floor, the sheets. It's odd how hospitals are all like that. White is a color of purity, of health, so it's ironic that such a room inhabits the ill. Maybe it's supposed to give the patients hope. That night, though, it only depressed me more. It was as if Collins was the only thing in that room that had a blemish—a disease that ran through his veins with no hope of being stopped. The room seemed to mock him: his blood would never run clean again.

"Mark," his deep voice freed me from my thoughts. "How are you?"

I rushed over to his bed and gave him a gentle hug, as though I was afraid I might break him. Collins was a large man—tall, strong, powerful. Maybe I had seen him so often since I'd been gone that I hadn't noticed how thin he had been getting. Now, it had been nearly a month since our last meeting, and I saw a drastic change in his appearance.

Collins was smaller now, and his once dark skin was growing pale. His eyes were the same, but there was a tiredness in them. He looked much older than his twenty-nine years, and I was at a loss for words.

Collins smiled gently and patted my arm. Without speaking, he told me he understood.

I sat in the chair next to him, my hand on his lower right arm. Finally, my voice came back to me.

"How are you feeling?"

Collins nodded slowly. "Right now, not bad. Not **good**, but not terrible either."

"T-cells?" I asked softly.

He shook his head. "Negative."

I nodded. He was confirming what the others had said, but I didn't want to think about that right now.

Suddenly, he looked at me, and it was as if we were back in the Life Cafe, drinking coffee. "So, tell me about your work! I'm sorry to say I missed tonight's feature Cohen presentation."

I let out something that could have passed for a guffaw or a sob, and shook my head. "You're too much, you know that?"

That broke the ice, and we began to talk again. I avoided discussing the present situation (that being, Collins dying in a fifth-floor hospital room) and we talked about other things. My work, our friends, the city, and his teaching.

Collins shook his head. "I'm sure one of those bastards gave me this," he paused to cough, which he covered up with a grin. "You can't get two hundred students together without SOME sort of infection wiping out half of the class by winter."

I knew he was being funny, but the last sentence panged me. I stood to go. "It's after one in the morning; you should get some sleep."

Collins nodded, his eyelids drooping, but a smile still on his face. "Seeing as how that's all I've been doing the past week, why not sleep a little more?"

I squeezed his hand. "I'll come back tomorrow. We all will, I'm sure."

We said our goodbyes, and I left the room. Outside, I saw that Benny had gone home. Maureen and Joanne (who had already spoken with Collins) had left, and Mimi went in after me to say goodnight. That left just Roger and me in the hallway.

"He's doing okay," I said, more to myself. Roger nodded, and I paused. "Can I ask you a favor?"

"What?"

"Well...I'm not going to lie to myself and say that he'll only be in here for a week, and then he'll get stronger and go home. I...I know what's going to happen."

Roger glared at me, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his leather jacket. "Where are you going with this?"

"Well...I want to be here. I can take off from work, but I need a place to stay." I paused. "Any possibility I can stay with you and Mimi in the loft?"

If I expected Roger to break into a smile, cuff my shoulder, and laugh "Of course you can! Your old room is always open," I didn't get it. Instead, he stared at the wall in front of him, shrugged, and said "Yeah, I guess."

Not the homecoming I was hoping for, but nonetheless, I smiled at him. "Thanks, Rog," I said genuinely.

Roger shrugged again. "Whatever. Here," he reached into his pocket and handed me his set of keys. "Go on, and I'll wait for Mimi." He paused for a moment before adding, tauntingly "You **do** still remember the way, right?"

I took the keys from him but didn't respond. I knew what was wrong; he wasn't mad at me. He had reacted this way when April and Angel both died. It was a reminder of his and Mimi's eventual fate. There was no way I could understand what he was going through. For me, it was a friend dying. For him, it was a dose of reality.

He needed to be alone. I took the keys and left.


	6. 5

**Chapter 5**

As I unlocked the door to the loft, nostalgia washed over me like a warm breeze. I hadn't been to this place in nearly two years, yet it only seemed like yesterday. Upon opening the door, I saw that everything was basically the same. Granted, my camera equipment and film notes weren't strewn on the floor (wow, I had forgotten we had hardwood floors...), but other than that, it felt like home. Roger's Fender guitar sat in its corner, and even though the heat was on, our illegal wood burning stove maintained its place of honor in the center of the room.

I walked into what was once my room, finding a foreign bed waiting for me. In the morning I'd go get some clothes from home, but as it was almost one-thirty, now all I wanted to do was sleep. I barely had time to take my glasses off before I was dead to the world, and numb to the events of the evening.

Later in the morning, I awoke to the phone ringing. Out of habit I jumped out of bed, before remembering I was at the loft and the call wasn't for me. Behind my shut door, I heard Roger's voice.

"Ok...ok, we'll be there," he said softly. My adrenaline returned, for a different reason this time, and I flung open the door.

Roger sat on the table, eating cereal. He barely looked at me.

"That was Benny," he said gruffly. "Collins...isn't looking too well right now, and he thinks we should come by as soon as possible."

I nodded. "I ought to run home first...get some stuff."

Finally Roger met my gaze. "Please tell me you're not about to document this, Mark," he said softly.

I frowned. I understood Roger's anger at the situation, but why did it have to be directed at me? "Why would I do that?" I replied, my voice rising.

"Because," Roger jumped off the table, carrying his empty cereal bowl into the kitchen. "You sold out your life to make a profit. Why not use this moment as a way to get that 'big promotion?'"

What was he talking about? "Roger—" I started, but he interrupted me, his cereal bowl crashing into the empty sink. At least he's doing the dishes, I thought.

"You think you're so high-and-mighty, the prodigal son returning home to his dying friend's bedside," Roger's eyes were cold and malicious. I had only seen him act this way towards me once before, two years ago

_Yes, you live a lie! Tell you why—_

on Halloween. I had lost my temper that time—we **both** had—nothing had been resolved,

—_you're always preaching not to be numb, when that's how you thrive!_

but this time would be different.

"Roger, when did I ever say that?" I asked, softly but firmly. I wouldn't lose my cool, but he wasn't going to push me around either.

"Oh you don't have to. We ALL know it's the truth!" Roger stopped fiddling with the cereal bowl and stared at me. "Why else did you leave the East Village?"

"I left because I got a job!" My voice rose in defense. "Some of us feel the need to

_...devote ourselves to projects that sell!_

try and make something of ourselves! I'm sorry if that wasn't in your plans."

Roger shook his head, his jaw taut and clenched. For a moment, I thought he was going to lose control, to yell and shout like always, but when he looked at me again, something had changed. He stared at me for a moment, searching my eyes—my soul—before speaking again.

"That's not why you left, Mark." Roger's voice was quiet. The anger was gone, and was replaced by...could it be?...disappointment. He sighed and began to dry the bowl. "You left because you couldn't stand around and wait for us to die."

His words hit me with full force, and I nearly stumbled backwards in surprise. "Tha—that's not true at all!" I exclaimed in defense. Why didn't he understand? **had **to move away!

Roger glanced up. "Isn't it? Then why **did** you leave?"

It was a rhetorical question, I knew, but I still found myself stumbling over consonants and conjunctions to try and explain myself. Nothing I said changed the look on Roger's solemn face or the feeling of guilt in my gut. Finally, I gave up.

"I'm going to see Collins," I said. "I have to be in at work tonight, so I'll say goodbye and go home."

I rushed into my old room to grab my coat, and headed out the door. When my hand reached the doorknob, Roger appeared in the hallway.

"It's goodbye for good this time, Mark," he said softly.

At first I thought he meant Collins, and I nodded. "I know. But my being here won't—"

Roger shook his head. "I mean from all of us. If you leave

_For someone who's always been let down—_

now, we're over. You can't show up for the beginning and end only,

—_who's headed out of town?_

it's all or none. If you really care, you have to stick through the middle parts, too—no matter how bad they are."

Funny how much he sounded like me at one time. Talk about role-reversals. Even so, I nodded shortly, opened the door, and left. I would have said goodbye, but my vocal chords were drawn too tightly to even try.


	7. 6

**Chapter 6**

"Mark, my streaking through the Parthenon shouldn't be the main thing you remember about me," Collins wheezed out a smile as he clasped my hand. We had been reminiscing about our times together, and I had reminded him of his infamous antic.

"Well, it's certainly hard to forget! We had to keep you hidden for nearly a month before the police stopped looking for you."

Collins' laugh turned into a bad cough. I handed him the glass of water he kept next to his bed, but he shook his head.

"Wouldn't keep me around much longer, anyways."

I swallowed hard and looked away. Why did he insist upon mentioning his death?

Collins noticed my discomfort. "This is bothering you."

It was my turn to shake my head. "No...I mean, yes, but not **just** this." God, Mark, don't lay your troubles on a dying man.

"Let me guess—Roger, right?" I nodded.

Collins sighed. "I tried talking to him—the others too, but mainly him. You're really the only one who can get through to him."

"He doesn't want to talk to me," I muttered.

Collins smiled weakly, but behind it, I saw the inner strength he always emitted. "Look. I know Roger is...well...a bit peeved at you for leaving."

"Pissed as a hornet," I cracked. "I've never seen him like this, Collins. He—he barely yelled at me. When we were roommates, whenever we fought, he'd always yell and scream and all...and this silence is really worse than any of that."

Collins was quiet, looking past me to the stain-free walls. "I know he's probably vented to you about it, so you know what he said. But you—you don't agree with him, do you?" I asked hesitantly.

Collins looked into my eyes. "Mark," he whispered. "Why did you really leave the East Village?"

I shrugged. I felt no need to defend myself around Collins. "I dunno...I got the job offer, and it was cheaper to move to midtown than to commute."

He shook his head. "That's not why. You traveled at least once a week to see me, paid **my** fairs to see **you**, and never once complained about the money." He paused. "Plus, when you visited, you **only** saw me. I never once heard you mention visiting Roger, Mimi, Maureen, Joanne, or even Benny."

"I...I just...never really felt like it..." It was a truthful answer, though somewhat vague. I was quiet for a moment, thinking. Finally, I looked Collins in the eyes.

"I never really thought of why I left so suddenly, but I didn't think it would be for good. I expected the others to feel the same way, y'know?" Collins nodded, not saying anything. "I...I knew we couldn't last like that forever."

"Like what?"

"Like...like how we did on New Year's Rockin' Eve, remember? Like how we did that next Christmas Eve. Connected. A family."

"So you left?"

I nodded. Maybe I had known this all along, but new revelations came with hearing myself voice each word. "I knew...Mimi's 'scare' was a wake-up call to all of us. Even Benny, I think, though he wasn't actually there. I sorta...accepted the fact that one day, she would die. One day, Roger would die. One day," I paused to swallow the lump in my throat, "you would die."

Collins nodded. "Everyone has to accept those facts...even those of us who aren't faced with our own mortality each day of our lives."

I sighed. "I...uh, I planned to come back. Save for you, the only people left were couples. They had each other. I knew that whenever Roger or Mimi died, the other one would be devastated." I chuckled. "They're not exactly people who act rationally in times of crisis. So, I tried to save my money. I figured when the worst happened to whomever it happened to, I'd come home, come back to the loft, and take care of the survivor—"

"Just like you did before," Collins finished my thought. "Because that's your role."

I nodded. It was getting harder to speak, harder to look him straight in the eyes. Fortunately, Collins continued.

"I had a feeling that was what was going on. You were leaving out of selflessness, not selfishness. You wanted to give the others their time together, and when it was over, go back to taking care of the living." He paused. "I think the others may have misinterpreted your generosity, Mark."

My ears were burning, as well as the corners of my eyes. I wished he'd stop making me out to be some sort of Superman. That wasn't the plan.

"My only question is...why you, Mark? Why not Maureen, Joanne, Benny? They'll still be here, too."

Collins had been whispering the whole time, his voice raspy with fatigue. But when I finally replied,

_And when I capture it on film, will it mean that it's the end—_

my own words were barely audible.

"Because...I'm alone."

—_And I'm alone?_


	8. 7

**Chapter ****7**

I kept my eyes closed the whole ride home. I had the train stops memorized by now, so there was no need to pay attention. Not for another fifteen minutes, anyway.

I had left Collins soon after that, unable to stay any longer. Before I left, however, he had asked me about my work.

"Did you ever show 'Proof Positive' to anyone other than us?"

I found it easier to talk about films, about work

_Mark has got his work, they say Mark lives for his work—_

than anything else we had discussed thus far. Possibly, it was because we were talking about something that would continue to exist. Even if I died going home on the train

—_and Mark's in love with his work—_

my work would still exist. And in a way, so would I.

There in the hospital room, I shook my head no in response.

"It's...just not ready. I haven't found a good ending, and..." my voice trailed off.

—_Mark hides in his work._

Collins observed me for a moment. "Maybe the film is ready. But maybe you aren't."

The train lurched to a stop, and I opened my eyes. Maybe Collins was right. I had been blaming my reluctance to show the film on the ending, which I felt I had never perfected. Maybe it was just me.

But why did I need to show it to the world anyway? Roger had commented on that earlier—how I'd "sold my whole life away for success." Had I really done that?

Actually, no, I hadn't. I had done the opposite. The films I currently showed on my late-night slot were nothing like what I used to do. They were good enough, but nothing I'd even watch two years ago, let alone film. You couldn't call that "success."

"So what do I do now?" I asked myself softly. The train was crowded, and I know a third of it heard me, but fortunately New Yorkers have other things on their mind than pathetic angsty artists. Too bad...someone might have been able to give me an answer.

Or had they done so already?

_You can't show up for the beginning and end only—it's all or none. If you really care, you have to stick through the middle, too._

Suddenly I jumped up—this action the other commuters noticed. I scanned my eyes across the posted subway map, checking how far I was from mid-town. I knew what I had to do. Finally, it all made sense.


	9. 8

**Chapter ****8**

A little over an hour later, I rushed back into the familiar hospital room. I had gone home and showered, changed, and packed a bag. I called the TV station and told them I wasn't coming in that week, but would drop off my film. Right at that moment, I was packing my only copy of "Today 4 U: Proof Positive" into a box. Forget the ending, I decided. The middle was what now held the core, and that's what mattered.

Inside, I found my friends gathered around Collins' bedside. They were standing silently, while Collins fought back sleep and perhaps something else.

"Hi," I said breathlessly when I entered.

The others regarded me with looks of mixed emotions. I really wasn't sure whether I was going to get group hugs or beaten up at this point.

It was Roger who spoke. "What are you doing here?" It wasn't a malicious snarl; it was a genuine question, and one that I'm sure was on everyone's mind.

I swallowed and smiled slightly. Looking past Roger and into Collins' eyes, I replied, "I'm home."

"Decided to come home for the end?" Okay, that remark was a little harsher.

I shook my head. "No, because this isn't the end. Not for me, anyway, and not for you," I looked at Roger "or any of you," I glanced at the rest of our group. "This is just the middle for us." In the corner, I saw Collins smile gently, his eyes opening wider.

"Welcome home," he said, his voice stronger than I had heard it all day.

With that, my friends (even Benny) rushed in to greet me. And I truly was home, and far from alone.


	10. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

I suppose I could tell you about the rest of the week—the talks we all had, the truths we confessed, the tears we shed (even Roger). I could tell you about Collins' death, and the memorial service we held. But...well, I'm just not ready to.

I spent the rest of the week at the loft, in my old bedroom. I brought the camera back out, and when it seemed appropriate, I filmed my friends.

Friday night, a week after this all began, I was zooming in on a rather drunken Maureen when she spat "Well, it's definitely like old times again...Mark's 'face' is back together again!" She was referring to the camera I was hold up to my eye.

"Yeah," Roger chimed in. "I had forgotten what it was like to really talk to you...that is, talking and know everything I say is being documented!" And I found myself laughing along with them.

Joanne yawned. "I don't understand why you're keeping us up, Mark. **Some** of us have to work tomorrow." With that, she threw a rather pointed look in Maureen's direction. Maureen was posing suggestively for the camera, and missed the entire thing.

"Just a few more minutes," I promised. The TV was on and waiting, and I nervously tapped the fingers of my free hand on my leg.

Like clockwork, right when my watch struck midnight, the TV screen smashed to black. On the background, white lettering appeared, spelling "Today 4 U: Proof Positive."

My friends sat in silence for the next twenty minutes. I had changed some things around, so this was a new version they were seeing. And, of course, it was the first time they had seen it on TV.

Collins appeared a lot in this version, whether recounting his own battle with AIDS or speaking about Angel. It was, discreetly, a memorial to the both of them. At the end, Collins and the rest of Angel's Life Support group stated their affirmation. As the familiar words resonated from the TV, I found myself mouthing along.

_There's only us, there's only this._

_Forget regret, or life is yours to miss._

_No other road, no other way—_

At this point, our entire group raised our fists and drinks into the air and yelled out the last line. Hopefully, we woke up everyone in the East Village.

"No day but today!"

We erupted into cheers. As I sat back and observed, I realized I could return to mid-town and my job without any resistance. Hell, I could move to up-town, and I still wouldn't be able to escape these friendships. I didn't have to worry about being alone anymore, about being the survivor. I didn't have to worry about the end, or what I would do when it came around.

It all depended on the middle, anyhow.


End file.
